


Pretty Little Song

by QueenForADay



Series: The Wolf and the Shrike [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Angry Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Assassin Jaskier | Dandelion, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Desk Sex, Jaskier | Dandelion Being a Little Shit, M/M, Mob Boss Geralt, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, PWP without Porn, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Rough Sex, Top Lambert (The Witcher), Voyeurism, Webcam/Video Chat Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:35:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28642302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: Geralt is lured away from his den and songbird for a meeting he'd rather not be at. He can feel his blood starting to scald his veins and a headache set in around his temples.And then he gets a notification on his phone; someone has broken into his office.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Lambert, Jaskier/lambert
Series: The Wolf and the Shrike [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2092515
Comments: 28
Kudos: 171





	Pretty Little Song

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, this is [crateofkate's fault](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crateofkate/pseuds/crateofkate). God bless.

It’s pointless. Being dragged all the way out to the middle of nowhere, and for what? For some cocksure, arrogant brat to start waving a gun around and making demands of him and his house? A growl loosens from Geralt’s throat at the thought of it.

The man – and he’s being generous, because Geralt would say he was only a few years into his manhood – obviously hasn’t been paying attention. If he really wanted to swindle some money or land out of someone, do it to the smaller lords and ladies of the other holdings who still squabble amongst themselves, desperately trying to stay relevant in a world fast slipping away from them. Don’t go for the bigger players lording over the boroughs just yet; especially when you’re by yourself, armed only with a short-ranged pistol and half a magazine of bullets, and insist on facing off against a pack of six.

What a waste. Time, bullets, gas, the lingering fumes of Geralt’s patience. All of it is running thin.

Coën shares an exasperated look with him through the rear-view mirror. Just outside, among the dirt and stone of the desert this boy insisted on meeting them, he can still spot the pool of blood left behind. A several hour drive for a meeting that lasted two minutes, if that. Geralt catches the bridge of his nose. Coën knows when to leave him alone, when to keep comments and words to himself. Gods help him if Lambert were here.

Vesemir had the right idea; walking away when he did. Some part of him wonders how the old wolf managed to live as long as he has. Not that attempts haven’t been made on his life. They have. But the stress and _stupidity_ of it all. Geralt wonders why his heart hasn’t given out yet, or how his brain hasn’t melted out through his ears.

Not all of them had the training he had, he supposes. He learned from the best, and Vesemir only left and disappeared when he was certain that Geralt wouldn’t fuck it up. And the fact that the old wolf hasn’t come stalking out of the shadows probably means that he’s doing just fine. Vesemir may be gone, gruffly saying that he doesn’t want to be involved anymore, but Geralt isn’t as stupid as to think he isn’t watching everything from the shadows; keeping a close eye on the kingdoms he’s built over the years and those within it.

All Coën can do is for him and what’s left of his sanity is bring them all to a hotel for the night. Toussaint is as dazzling and bright as it’s always been, with neon lights shining down on to the streets instead of sunlight. It’s loud and grating and worms its way underneath his skin in the worst way possible. Not even the dimmed windows of his car can drown out the noise. Music thumps out of bars and their patrons spill out on to the streets.

He wants Kaedwen, his home, and the lark nesting in it. Slipping away that morning tore at him in ways he’d rather not admit. Jaskier can be incredibly perceptive, but after a night of long and languid lovemaking, his sated lover was strewn over their bed, hair soft and sticking out at all angles, face mushed into his pillow and arms and legs sprawled in all directions. He didn’t even flinch at Geralt slipping out of bed, pulling on clothes, loading up a bag, and leaving. He might have snuffled into his pillow when Geralt parted with him, brushing a light kiss on to his cheek, but that was it.

And now all he wants is to go home, burrow back into that nest of soft sheets and pillows that smell like the two of them, and take Jaskier into his arms.

He wishes he could hold someone personally accountable for wasting his time. A genuine meeting held with some southern lords and ladies, one which went as well as he expected it to go. And then to be lured out into a stretch of sand and dirt because someone was getting a bit cocky – it’s all a waste of time he doesn’t have.

The one redeeming quality he might give Toussaint is their hotels. They’re everywhere, and anywhere will take them all for the night if the right name is mentioned. But Geralt and his pack amble in to one they’ve frequented before, where the lobby is carved from marble and gold fixtures hang from the ceiling and make the lights dazzling.

Coën keeps to his side, his hand brushing the holstered gun by his side. If the lapels of his jacket move to flash the sight of the gun, then so be it. Not that anyone would think of hunting for a few wolf pelts here. But it’s always best to be cautious and safe. The receptionist looks up from her monitor and blinks, recognising them instantly. His name and shadow might spread for leagues in all directions, but he likes to keep his face away from his work. But he figures that a hotel like this sees its fair share of disreputable types, and the receptionist recognises the posture.

By the time Geralt steps into his room for the night, his muscles start to ache and his joints protest every move and step he takes. Vesemir managed gods-only-know how many years of this. And the weight of it all is already starting to hunch his shoulders.

The room is as bathed in wealth as the rest of the hotel; a large plush bed, an amply filled fridge with drinks, a large claw-toed bathtub in the bathroom. All things that, if he had the energy and time, he would lounge in and make worth his stay. Especially if he had his little lark. The first of many bottles of wine or champagne or anything that he could get his hands on would be cracked open, and the bed already rumpled.

But now, he ambles towards the bed, already toeing off his shoes and tossing his suit jacket on to a couch he passes. Vesemir explained everything he could to him, including the strain of being in charge. But to experience it is something else.

He perches on the edge of the bed, setting on the rest of his clothes. He fishes his phone out of his pocket. Kept relatively silent for the day, though he suspects who might have left the most messages already. A few from Eskel – reports, mostly, of how well goods are now travelling between boroughs now – and some from Lambert about the newest few pups gathered by the elders.

And then there are the messages that Jaskier has sent him throughout the day.

Honestly, he expected more. Geralt runs his eyes over them, noting that they started off being a few minutes apart. Even if Jaskier woke up alone, he knew where Geralt was expected to be. But he still expected to be answered as soon as he texted.

_Songbird (10:57): It’s not nice, you know. Waking up in a bed, cold and alone. It’s pretty shit actually._

_Songbird (11:03): When will you be home?_

_Songbird (11:45): Her Enlightened Ladyship better be keeping her hands to herself while you’re paying a visit. _

_Songbird (11:46): I don’t care if she’s the queen of the south. Anna Henrietta will be getting a visit from me if she even looks in your direction. _

_Songbird (13:34): Geralt._

_Songbird (14:32): I don’t like being ignored, Geralt. _

**Geralt (21:58): Won’t be home tonight. Lay-over in Toussaint. Will be with you again by late morning. **

_Songbird (22:01): Interesting. _

He regards his phone for a moment. He should call. His little lark can be a needy little thing, and even though he knew that Geralt would be away and possibly not able to see to his phone or his messages, Jaskier doesn’t like being left behind.

Geralt’s thumb hovers over _CALL_. It isn’t that late. He’s sure that Jaskier would still be awake. Whether or not he would answer, that’s another question. Jaskier can be a needy little thing, and fucking petulant when he doesn’t get his way.

His phone blinks to black. He’ll call in the morning, when he’s on his way home to his songbird and prepared to bundle him to their bed and not let him leave for a few hours. Geralt sighs. Sleep starts to pull at him, and a tight coil of pain is slowly curling around the sides of his head. He’s about to set his phone down, half-thinking about turning it off and letting himself have one decent night of sleep, when it vibrates in his hand.

The phone beeps. Notifications only make noise for certain things. His closest contacts, for their urgent messages, and for his security system. And this noise sounds like the former. Geralt’s brows knit together. A tension headache that had already been beginning to wane and soothe starts creeping back, winding around the sides and temples of his head.

**SYSTEM ALERT**

**BREACH – 22:18**

**OFFICE**

Geralt frowns. The office is locked, with only a few people having copies of the key. And a firm rule put in place in the house, alongside many others. No one is allowed to be in there without Geralt. It’s his space. When it was Vesemir’s, no one dared set a foot inside of it without the old wolf already inside, and even then, Geralt often didn’t want to. It seemed too imposing; a simple room converted into an office, but with a heavy and sturdy desk, almost two-hundred years old, mahogany wood, and ornately carved, sitting in front of Vesemir – a desk that Geralt could barely look over when he was a young pup – it seemed to give this authoritative air within the room.

He clicks the notification, waiting for the security systems inside to send a feed, before setting it on to the bed. Nimble fingers set on the buttons of his shirt, though his eyes stay on his phone’s screen. A handful of wolves were left at home with his songbird; and they all know to stay out of Geralt’s stuff when he’s away.

When the feed blinks alive on his phone, Geralt’s frown only deepens. He has two cameras set up, mostly guarding his desk, looking down on it and the large bay window behind. Neither Vesemir nor him are stupid enough to keep anything overtly valuable, or compromising, in the desk’s drawers or cabinets. But there are some reports left there by his wolves heading home from their stalking grounds. That, and the fact it’s his space. Left to _him_ by someone else. He bristles at the thought of someone else being in there other than him.

It takes a moment for the feed to focus. It’s not tripped a lot, and if he’s going to be honest, he was even sure that there might not have been a need for it. His wolves are all well behaved, knowing the order and way of things. Always kept to heel.

But not his little bird, apparently.

He shrugs his shirt off, letting it drop to the ground, as he glowers at his phone. His little lark has found a new nest, apparently. Geralt picks up his phone. He isn’t alone. Geralt perches on the edge of his bed, fingers gripping on to his phone tightly, as he sees his little lark wander around the back of his desk with one of his wolves in tow – Lambert. A growl clambers up Geralt’s jaw.

Jaskier has his hand locked with Lambert’s, luring him close and setting his other hand on one firm swell of Lambert’s chest. The camera might not be at the right angle, but he knows Jaskier’s ability to lull and lure. He can picture his bird’s lilting smile now, plying Lambert with fond but glinting eyes, rocking up on his heel slightly to dust his lips over the other man’s.

Geralt’s blood warms.

There’s a still moment between them. Jaskier’s lips drift towards Lambert’s ear. The man doesn’t turn his head, but Geralt watches a smile slowly curl along his lip. His songbird is singing, and Geralt’s teeth bare.

Jaskier pulls away. His face is still obscured by the angle of the camera, but not for long, it seems. He turns, letting go of Lambert’s hand, and bends over Geralt’s desk and spreading himself out over it as if it were a bed to lounge on. Geralt’s lip lifts in a snarl. The long lines of him stretch out and sprawl, with the dip of his back and the arms he reaches over the desk, grabbing on to the front of it with his hands. He turns his head, lulling Lambert with more soft and luring words. It doesn’t take long for them to wash over the wolf and take effect. Lambert reaches out. The first brush of Lambert’s hands over his bird, over the soft skin of his waist and hips, Geralt’s blood scalds in his veins.

Lambert’s fingers catch the waist of Jaskier’s sweatpants, pulling them over the globes of his ass and pushing them half-way down his thighs. Jaskier shuffles, spreading his legs wider. Even through the slight grain of the feed, Geralt watches a smile start to curl over his songbird’s lips.

And they move. The feed is visual only; but Geralt would give everything to have audio. He needs to know what they’re saying, what sounds _his_ songbird is making for someone else without him around, without his permission.

He’s a spoilt brat; bathed in gold and silk and oils that keep his skin soft and scented sweetly. And he has alluring eyes that he knows how to brandish as weapons. Geralt hasn’t ever been able to say no to him; and this could be a direct result of all of it.

Jaskier doesn’t bother with underwear much these days. With Geralt in close proximity, and the small shred of privacy within their home, Jaskier likes to perch on the man’s lap and see what happens as a result. And the sight of him half-bare, strewn across his desk, Geralt’s cock stirs within the tight confines of his slacks. Lambert’s hands wander over every stretch of skin bare to him, and Geralt considers this the last time Lambert will have hands. Although pleasure blooms in the deepest core of him, his blood begins to boil and scald.

Lambert presses close to Geralt’s songbird, looking down at the ass presented to him. Lambert’s hands wander down, slowly pushing the cheeks aside, and he pauses. A slow sly smile spreads along Lambert’s mouth, and more words are spoken.

He can only imagine what.

If his little lark planned this, and he can only presume that he did, then Jaskier has already strewn himself along the sheets of their bed, fingers buried inside of him and prying him apart – for someone other than Geralt. And the thought sours his tongue.

One of Lambert’s hands drifts down, and watching the small adjustment of Jaskier’s hips and the way he almost seems to sink into the heavy mahogany wood of the desk below him, Lambert must be playing with him. A finger or two, it probably doesn’t matter. Jaskier is diligent and sure with his fingers, and wouldn’t have wasted any time in making sure he was already stretched out before luring one of Geralt’s wolves into his den.

But he takes his time, letting fingers slip inside and play with Jaskier. Something the songbird seems to languish in, for a moment at least. He rests his head on one of his arms, throwing a glance back at Lambert. His hips move again, pushing back against Lambert’s hand.

The grin on the man’s face only grows. His hands set to his belt, deftly undoing it within seconds.

Geralt glares at the screen. He would stalk to whatever room Coën has bought for the night, kick down his door, and demand that they go home _now_. Fuck driving nearly four hours at night. Fuck having to drift through tolls and checks through each borough. He needs to be at home, in _his_ office, and tear Lambert piece from piece.

His eyes can’t move away from the screen. He doesn’t even think that he’s blinked in the last few minutes, with how badly his eyes start to sting and strain as he glares at the phone in his hand. His fingers pulse around it with how tightly he’s gripping the phone, and it’s a small wonder he hasn’t crushed it in his hand.

His other, resting on his thigh, with his fingers curled and digging into the swell of muscle there, wants to drift. His cock aches within his slacks, pulled tight from sitting down and hardness trying to tent it.

If Jaskier knew the struggle, he’d laugh and languish in it. Maybe it’s what he’s hoping for. And the anger too. He knows how to lure emotions and reactions out of Geralt – better than anyone he’s ever met. And he knows what buttons to press to make Geralt feral.

He stares down at the screen, glowering at the sight of Lambert pulling his cock free from his jeans, a hand curled around it and pumping. His eyes are focused on Jaskier’s ass; spread and wet and ready for him. And Geralt knows how difficult it is to refuse a gift like that presented to him. But it’s not to him. No one asked for his permission; not Jaskier, not Lambert. He’s eyes sting at the sight of Lambert setting on hand on to his desk, almost mounting Jaskier as he sets the head of his cock against the man’s hole and pushes in with a sure thrust.

Jaskier burrows into his arm, lost for a moment as he pushes back against Lambert’s hips, letting the man’s cock delve into the deepest parts of him.

And Geralt resists every urge to hurl his phone across the room, smashing it into the nearest wall.

They’re both still for a moment, though Jaskier reaches back and sets a free hand on to Lambert’s hip, stilling him for a moment. Lounging in the stretch and the full feeling that must be washing over him.

It’s not Geralt. Jaskier hasn’t let anyone fuck his ass since falling into the man’s bed. And he’s sure that it must feel different now; that the comparisons are flashing through his head. But Lambert’s cock is big enough for a stretch, even with preparation done. A small and sharp stag of pain must be flashing through the small of his back; a usual pain that Jaskier delights in. It’s a full feeling. He loves plying himself open just enough to feel the stretch and burn of a cock entering him, being reminded that he’s either pinned under someone or perched on them.

And he takes a moment to lounge in the feeling of Lambert filling him now. It’s short-lived. Jaskier taps the man’s hips, setting his arms back underneath himself and pushing up from Geralt’s desk, grabbing on to the other side of it with a white-knuckled grip.

Lambert’s hips snap against his. Jaskier’s mouth stretches open around a moan at the first, and the second and third, feeling Lambert’s cock settle deeply inside of him. Even though he can’t hear his songbird singing, he knows the kinds of sounds that are slipping out through his bitten-plump lips.

Jaskier sets his head against a folded up arm, lounging in the rock and draw of Lambert’s cock within him. Lambert touches any bare stretch of skin he can find on Geralt’s little bird; the round pert globes of his ass, the dip of the small of his back. He shoves the man’s tee up, baring more of his spine. Lambert bows over him, snapping his hips harder and harder until Geralt can practically hear the groans of both Jaskier and his desk.

Lambert has always been rough and brash, with just about everything and including his toys. He doesn’t have any issue with people hearing him or his latest conquests, and in the very few times he’s brought men and women into this house, Geralt has tried his best to block out bed creaks and slamming against the wall, or moans and grunts tumbling up the hallway.

Even with no audio, he can hear them both now. And every bit of it scalds him inside and out. The hand on his thigh twitches. If he touches himself, slipping his hand into his slacks and palming himself, Jaskier will know and lord it over him for the rest of his days. So he doesn’t. He keeps his hand where it is. And he hates that too.

Gods curse Jaskier and his ability to affect him, even three boroughs away.

His little lark seems to be enjoying himself at the very least. Eyes rolling and mouth open, rocking his hips back against Lambert and spearing himself back on the man’s cock. Lambert catches his hips, guiding him back and fucking into that spot inside of Jaskier that has him squirming and whining, tightening his grip on the edge of the desk.

He tosses his head back, working some strands of hair back from his face. His eyes, even hooded, are blown out. And Geralt is drawn to them. Not his bare ass bouncing back against Lambert’s hips, the plain of skin bared from a hitched up shirt. Jaskier’s eyes are the most alluring thing about him, and even now, Geralt watches them.

And Jaskier’s eyes meet his.

Geralt swallows. _The fucking brat._ Jaskier turns his head just enough to face the camera perched up on the wall, aimed directly at his desk from an angle. His eyes stare down the barrel of it, right through the feed and Geralt’s phone to Geralt himself. And Geralt’s lip lifts in a snarl.

A smile twitches Jaskier’s lips. It lingers, even as his mouth stretch around a moan. Geralt knows that look. When words somehow manage to evade his songbird and all that slips out of him are fucked-out whines and moans. One of Jaskier’s hands slips underneath him, presumably wrapping around his cock.

He knows what he’s doing. Jaskier is always several strides ahead of him in most things, it seems. He has Geralt curled around his finger and knows exactly how to manipulate things to go his way.

All Geralt can do for now is hold the man’s eye, watch him start to be lured towards the edge of release and stumble over it.

Because it’s the last time he’s going to cum for a while, if Geralt has anything to say about it.

Lambert’s thrusts start to stagger. He catches Jaskier’s hips tighter, pulling the man’s hips back against him and fucking in deeper. His hair falls into his face, almost sticking to the skin with the small sheen of sweat starting to set on his forehead.

Jaskier holds Geralt’s eye, staring down the barrel of the camera as Lambert starts to bow over him, roughly pulling him back against every thrust until Lambert’s face twists and his hips still against him. Lambert comes and it’s a visceral thing. He buries himself deep in Geralt’s songbird, flooding him completely. Jaskier rolls his hips back, taking in as much as he can.

Even though he can’t see it, Geralt knows that his hand is still stroking his cock, luring himself closer and closer. And he watches the moment he rolls over, stilling and then slumping over Geralt’s desk. He keeps his face to the camera, letting Geralt see what someone else has done to him, in a place Geralt holds sacred.

A growl rips out of his throat. His knuckles have long-since turned white with how tightly he grips his phone. He’s seen enough. He should let his phone fade to black. And what then? He isn’t going to be able to sleep. His cock aches within his slacks and his blood scalds his veins.

Lambert pulls out slowly, looking down at the slow dribble of cum that must trail out of him. He lingers, watching, reaching forward to run his fingers around Jaskier’s hole and shove what he can back in.

Jaskier writhes on the table. His lark can get oversensitive if handled too much. And the arch of Geralt’s lip lifts in a snarl.

They don’t linger long, and there’s a short miracle within that; though the damage is already done. Geralt’s hackles stand on end as he watches both of them gather themselves. Pulling up trousers and fixing what they can of themselves. Jaskier runs a hand over Geralt’s desk. From what he can see, his little lark didn’t mark it. But the wood probably stinks of him. Geralt’s nostrils flare. He can practically smell the harsh musk of sex all the way here.

Lambert catches his lark’s chin between his thumb and finger, leaning down to wisp words over his lips, but not near enough to touch. He knows what he was here for, but he isn’t stupid. He’s laid his marks on Geralt’s possessions, but he knows that luring something sweet like a kiss out of Jaskier might just cost him his life.

It’s already teetering on the edge of reason. His hands that touched him are Geralt’s to do with whatever he wants. He’ll take them from Lambert for all he knows. Maybe his cock too, since he’s overly fond of it.

Thoughts blink in front of him. His little lark wanted a rise out of him and he’s certainly earned it; but the poor naive thing didn’t consider the wildfire that it’s caused, and it might just engulf him and Lambert too.

His phone buzzes in his hand. Glancing down at it, Geralt glowers at the message that pops up.

_Songbird (22:47): I told you that I don’t like being ignored, Geralt. _

**Author's Note:**

> Lambert, honey, you got a big storm coming.
> 
> tumblrs:  
> yourqueenforayear (personal) || agoodgoddamnshot (writing)
> 
> twitter:  
> @eyesupmarksman
> 
> Kudos & Comments gladly appreciated!


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